


10 Years of Sherlock - A Collection of 221b Ficlets for the Sherlock Fandom

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining, Regret, Reichenbach Feels, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Meal, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, a trip down memory lane, and there is really nothing more to say on the subject, comet gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Pain, loss, redemption, passion, love. Johnlock.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 64
Kudos: 54
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	1. A Veritable Feast For The Senses

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended to write one 221b ficlet for the 10 Years of Sherlock celebration.  
> Here's eleven. Sorry not sorry.  
> Unbeta'ed, so please tell me if there are glaring mistakes.

Sherlock picks a dumpling, swipes it on the sweet and sour sauce, and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. The scallop dumpling is silky and unctuous against his palate, the delicate shell giving way to an explosion of spices. It pairs exquisitely with the sharp sauce. He then picks a pork rib and closes his eyes in bliss as his teeth sink into the tender texture of the meat, his tongue picking up the sweetness of the black bean sauce.

The meal is a veritable feast for the senses, but the food is the less important piece. Across from him sits John, happily tucking away in other offerings from the steaming baskets. He sends Sherlock the occasional smile, a beautiful thing that reaches his eyes.

John, who tonight shot a man to save Sherlock’s life and now chews on dim sum in a restaurant just around the corner from Baker Street.

They have hardly spoken since the food arrived.

There is no need for words right now. The evening slides away with an easy companionship that surprises Sherlock.

John licks his lips and looks at him, the same way he looked at Sherlock earlier at Angelo’s. There’s hope in his gaze, and Sherlock _wants_.

John Watson is moving into 221b. The question is, will John really take the upstairs bedroom?


	2. Chasing Comet Tails

“Hurry up, John!”

John looks up from his book in confusion. Sherlock is a whirlwind of scarf and Belstaff and reaching for John to lift him from his armchair. “Uh, is there a case?”

“Hmm, not as such, no.” Sherlock snatches the book from John’s hands. John is about protest but the prospect of going out with Sherlock is more appealing than the insipid novel he was trudging through.

A few impatient shoves find John climbing into a rental car. Okay, so not a midnight walk in the centre. He becomes increasingly confused when Sherlock drives them outside London; a good hour later, they find themselves in a rural area outside of Harlow. Sherlock parks the car and they walk on a field, the night crystal clear above them.

Sherlock stops and looks up, searching for something. He points up, “There it is!”

John looks up. A comet shines shyly among the stars, so more visible here than in London. John smiles at the astronomical phenomenon but also at the fact Sherlock took them all the way out here to see a comet. “I thought you didn’t care about the Solar System.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock replies, “but this is beautiful.” He looks down at John, eyes shining and happy.

John holds his gaze and feels something blooming in him. “Yeah. Beautiful.”


	3. Covalent Bond

It’s a struggle to even lift his feet to go upstairs. Seventeen steps that feel like a thousand. But up he goes, following John into the flat. From his gait, John is in no better shape.

No wonder. The night is turning into dawn, after long hours giving statements and trying to make sense about the twisted game Moriarty played with them at the pool.

What is troubling Sherlock, and keeps replaying in his head, is John offering his life to save Sherlock’s. The way he did not hesitate in holding Moriarty and telling Sherlock to run.

Like Sherlock would do such a thing, snipers or no snipers.

John goes straight for the kettle. Exhaustion takes hold of Sherlock, a bone-deep fatigue from a night that lasted an eternity. But he settles in his armchair and accepts a fresh brew. He’s too tired to sleep, counterintuitively enough.

Two or twenty minutes pass before John says something. “We almost died tonight.”

Sherlock cannot parse the tone in John’s voice. Is it sorrow? Shock? Just a statement? He settles for replying with a small nod.

They abandon their mugs in the living-room. Sherlock follows John upstairs again but the lead in his legs is gone. They lie down in John’s bed and sleep, entwined in an embrace as strong as a covalent bond.


	4. Untangle

All hatred John had for The Woman dissipated in a breath when learning of her death from Mycroft. How can anyone hate a dead woman? Yet, John cannot completely relinquish his loathing for Irene Adler.

He stares at the cracked paint on the ceiling above his bed. He does not want to go downstairs for a while. It is too much. For all that he claims to be a sociopath, Sherlock is not unmoved by Irene’s death – asking for her phone is proof enough of that. And John cannot face him and his grief.

John turns and punches his pillow in frustration. Great friend he is, abandoning Sherlock to his sorrow. He sits up and forces himself to untangle the emotions that have balled up inside him, separate them into threads and identify them one by one.

He is jealous. He must admit it to himself. He envies a dead woman because she held Sherlock’s attention in a way John thinks he never will.

Yes, Sherlock takes him on midnight expeditions to look at comets, relies on his presence to process his ideas, but he never reaches for John for intimacy.

There was that one time after the… incident with Moriarty at the pool but…

John falls back on his mattress and lets his own private sorrow take over his body.


	5. For The Better

The train back to London is mostly spent in quiet contemplation at the events around Baskerville. Sherlock is not the sort of man to dwell on the past, but he needs to process what happened in this head. The thrill of solving the puzzle still glows warm in his chest.

He chances a glance at John. Bless his heart – John can sleep anywhere, and the uncomfortable seat is no impediment for a nap. His head lolls against the windowpane, lips slightly open, steady, slow breaths, a relaxed brow.

Regret clenches around Sherlock’s heart in a sudden, fierce grip. How could he have been so callous with his friend? His only friend. Sherlock was not lying to get John on his side again, even if John might have thought so – Sherlock has truly never cared for another human being as he does for him.

Mycroft’s words float uninvited into his consciousness: _caring is not an advantage_. True enough, but what can Sherlock do about it now?

He almost lost John’s friendship. In fact, Sherlock is not quite sure if John has forgiven him. Panic edges into his thoughts – what if John thinks this was the final drop?

Sherlock calms his inner turmoil at the sight of his sleeping flatmate. Whatever the future holds, John has already changed Sherlock’s life for the better.


	6. In The Blink Of An Eye

The tattered carpet rasps against John’s naked toes as he sits in his chair and stares into oblivion.

It had been too good to last long. And it had all vanished in the blink of an eye.

He replays the scene in his mind. Not that he wants to but there is no choice. The last words they exchanged, a pair of arms wide open, a step forward—

John closes his eyes, but it does not help. Nothing helps. He opens them again, sees the empty armchair in front of him. Resists the urge to touch it.

What could he have said to make Sherlock not believe he was a fraud? This whole situation is incomprehensible. Sherlock was the brightest man John had ever known, and not only that, he was also the best man… the most human human being… and John never told him how much he—

They finally come. The sobs. It took days but here they are, raising like violent bubbles exploding through his chest. John sinks in his chair, face on his hands, and lets the tears run, unbidden but necessary. He knows he should call Ella, get grief counselling but in the end, it all comes down to the same – the most important person in his life is gone forever and nothing will bring him back.


	7. Everything In Its Right Place

The press is gone (thank goodness), the champagne has been consumed, the guests have left.

Sherlock breathes in his flat. 221B Baker Street.

It is good to be home. Everything in its right place.

Except one. But Sherlock is not surprised. John is back in his life but not as his flatmate. He has moved on.

Sherlock sighs. He has missed John like a missing limb, a phantom presence existing only in his mind for over two years. And now that Sherlock is back, and John is real and _here_ , he is still a ghost, just out of reach.

But John seems happy. He and Mary just got engaged, after all. He will not return to share his life with Sherlock. And it is all for the best, really. Sherlock came back with… _baggage_. He hates to admit it, but his treatment at the hands of his captors in Serbia have left their marks, physical and (damn it all) emotional. Nightmares populate his head, a miscellanea of what happened in Serbia and on the rooftop of Barts and the pool and Moriarty. John’s blood in his hands. Those are the worst ones.

Dreadfully boring, this _trauma_ thing. Tedious. It would only make John concerned, and he would pity Sherlock. Best to leave John be in peace and quiet with his betrothed.


	8. The Unfairness Of It All

The knock on the door surprises Mycroft. He had been expecting Sherlock to show up on his doorstep, but he assumed his brother would simply burst in – his usual _modus operandi_.

If Sherlock had been desperate enough to call Mycroft in the middle of the wedding party to “remind” him to show up, it is no wonder he would seek his companionship later.

Mycroft opens the door. “Good evening, Sherlock.”

A pale Sherlock walks past him into the foyer, disrobing his coat and jacket and throwing them on a chair. He stands straight as a rod, his back to Mycroft.

Mycroft touches his arm carefully, but Sherlock still flinches. “Would you care for a brandy?” He gets a jerky nod in return; Sherlock follows his older brother into the library.

They sink into armchairs, nursing the drink in silence. Mycroft knows there is little he can say now that will help. Rarely has he seen his brother in this state, but he recognises it all the same:

Sherlock is heartbroken.

He could despise John for being the cause of the heartbreak (obvious) but it is all a confluence of unfortunate events, in the end. Mycroft hurts too, for him, for the unfairness of it all. The only thing he can do is the usual same – to be there for his brother.


	9. The Loveliest Thing

The mix of hurt, fury and happiness in John’s face is utterly confusing and, Sherlock thinks, wonderfully endearing. Probably because he is high as a kite. Likely because John is a marvellous mix of contradictions.

He is shouting a lot, though. Oh, John is shouting _at him_. Yes, a bit not good to have _indulged_ , but he _was_ on his way to certain death anyway. Might as well have some fun. Better life through chemistry and all that rot.

Although he is admittedly feeling quite unwell.

Ooh, John is unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, now this is unexpected (but not unwelcome). Unfortunately, it seems Mary and Mycroft are still in the room, which is off-putting, to say the least. Are they into voyeurism? Ew.

Oh, he must have said that out loud because John chuckles, Mycroft rolls his eyes and Mary does a complicated thing with her face that Sherlock cannot really discern. Not in this state, at least.

He flinches when John presses the cold endpiece of a stethoscope against his chest. John mumbles an apology. Sherlock thinks it is the loveliest thing he has ever heard and tells him so.

John looks at him with a softening expression and his beautiful crooked smile and gives him a gentle squeeze on the wrist.

Sherlock has never seen eyes so pretty and blue.


	10. Toxic

John’s hand still hurts from the effort of holding the pen steady while writing the letter to Sherlock. The tremor in his left hand is back, worsened by the drink. He knows that.

He does not give a flying fuck.

He regrets shooing Molly off his case so soon after Sherlock had the nerve to show up on his doorstep. She has taken Rosie with her to give John some space to himself. John knows she is more concerned about Rosie’s well-being. That’s okay. He is too. He knows he will fail as a father as he has failed as a husband and as a friend. People should just leave his orbit because he is toxic. Nothing good ever happens to him, and the common factor to his life’s successive failings is _him_.

Somehow, he cannot shake Sherlock off. Maybe the absolute filth John wrote him will put him off for good.

They are not good for each other. John thought he could keep the wife and keep the friend, but it was all too much for poor ordinary him. They are complicated and he is a simpleton. Complicated, yeah, but in a simpleton way. Or something like that.

John spent literal years wishing Sherlock back and now he is pushing him away.

His trembling hand reaches for the whisky bottle.


	11. Let Me Love You Instead

In the end, it is so simple.

In the end, all it takes is a cathartic hug. The admission that these are the only arms John ever wants wrapped around him.

Sherlock embraces him, gentle but firm, a hand cupping John’s head. Turning it gently so they face each other.

John sees all the unrestrained love in Sherlock’s eyes and must fight a new wave of sobs threatening to break from his chest.

He lifts a hand to cup Sherlock’s stubbled jaw, his thumb lightly stroking the cheekbone. He sees the damage he has inflicted on the man he loves, the cut on his eyebrow and the reddened eye, and hates himself a bit more.

“Don’t,” Sherlock softly says, “please, stop hating yourself. And if you cannot find the strength to love yourself, then…” He hesitates, “then let me love you instead.”

John lets him.

In the end, it is the easiest thing in the world to close the distance and pour years of longing and passion into the kiss. To walk into the dark bedroom and remove each other’s clothes. To lie down on cool sheets. To let Sherlock show him how adored John is and always has been. To bond again. To make love to Sherlock Holmes.

In the end, it is not the end but a new beginning.


End file.
